


Princess in the Tower

by oswiin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Dark, F/M, Jon is pissed, Ramsay has the real Arya, Wounds, basically what you'd expect from that boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswiin/pseuds/oswiin
Summary: The Boltons managed to capture the real Arya Stark and bring her back to Winterfell. After marrying Ramsay, she prays everyday for someone to relieve her, but she finds Theon Greyjoy, now known as Reek, is too much of a coward. At the wall, Jon learns of the wedding, and does all he can to get her back.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Arya Stark
Comments: 12
Kudos: 68
Collections: Jonrya Week, Jonrya Week: January 2020





	1. Capture

The man who was once Theon Greyjoy, if he could even be called a man, followed with the other dogs at Ramsay Snow’s heels, though he liked to kill anyone who still called him ‘Snow.’ They were there to greet the Lord’s father, Roose Bolton, who arrived with thousands of Freys and Bolton soldiers, and a smattering of the Northern Lords who once followed the Young Wolf into battle, their banners tattered and eyes angry.

Reek watched as Ramsay knelt before his father, was told to rise, and greeted an older woman with a red face who could only be Fat Walda, Lord Frey’s granddaughter and the Lord’s new wife. Ramsay kissed her hand, but Reek feared the fallout after the false courtesies had ended.

“I am sure you will recall the Lady Arya. Your betrothed.” A slim girl, taller than Reek remembered, with dark brown hair falling halfway down her back begrudgingly stepped out of the litter, a murderous look in her eye. Her dress was grey wool bordered with white satin, and her cloak was clasped with a silver wolf’s head. 

She looked every part the lady. If Reek didn’t know any better, he’d say she wasn’t Arya Stark at all, but for the eyes. She has her father’s eyes, the Stark eyes. And that look was unforgettable. He had often thought that she would look at him like that after a stupid joke, which he was wont to make, and he would start bleeding, and would never stop. It was oft said the Old Gods had their own sort of magic, and the Starks were the last with the old blood in their veins.

They all watched the girl face her future husband. “Lord Ramsay,” she said with a steady voice. For a moment, he half-expected her to dip down before him, and that would make him doubt. Arya Stark would take no husband she did not love and would never be forced into anything without a fight. She looked up at the Bolton Bastard and Reek noticed, hidden beneath her cloak, a thin blade, Braavosi style. No doubt she had stabbed several Bolton men until they allowed her to keep it.

Lady Walda gave the girl an encouraging smile. After a pause, Arya Stark spat into Ramsay Bolton’s face, and that’s how Reek confirmed it was her. Ramsay reached for his long sword, she tightened her grip on hers, and Roose Bolton ordered his son to stand down and treat the girl with reverence and respect. “She is the key to the North, after all. How long before these lords murder us in our beds after you kill their precious she-wolf?”

Ramsay stiffened, but released his sword and bowed to his future wife. But the look on his face… Reek knew that face well. It meant the slight would not be forgotten, and the girl would pay dearly for it.

* * *

Jon Snow’s black cloak felt heavy on his shoulders as he read and reread every word of Ramsay Bolton’s letter. It galled him more than it should.  _ The Night’s Watch takes no part _ , yet seeing ‘Lord Bolton’, ‘wedding’ and ‘Arya Stark’ on the parchment nearly made him sick. To think of his sister in Ramsay Bolton’s bed… he nearly threw the cursed paper into the fire.

Tormund Giantsbane was watching him curiously, along with Satin, his heavily perfumed steward, and Clydas, the old steward who brought him the letter. “It’s Arya, my sister. The Bolton’s have her.” His fist closed around the parchment, sealed with pink wax, and wished it was Ramsay Bolton’s throat he held there instead. 

“So?” Tormund asked, not knowing the rumours. This Bastard of Bolton was notorious for flaying his enemies and his women alike, once he got bored of them, and his little sister was wed to the man. Jon could barely stomach it. The Black Brothers around him began to explain, but all Jon heard was white noise.

He thought of Arya in a wedding dress, but in his mind she was still too skinny and small, and always clutching that blade he’d given her.  _ Would she still have it? _ he wondered.  _ That little sword he’d had Mikken forge for her? _

When asked what they would do, Jon had no answer. He flexed the fingers of his sword hand.  _ The Night’s Watch takes no part. I have no sisters, only brothers _ .  _ What you propose is nothing less than treason. _ Jon thought of the other times he had tried to desert, all the reasons he should have long ago. He thought of Robb, snowflakes in his hair, of Bran climbing a tower wall and Rickon, running through the Godswood with Shaggy. He thought of Sansa, and how her marriage to a Lannister hadn’t stirred the same feelings in him.

_ You know nothing, Jon Snow.  _ He thought of Arya, her brown hair and grey eyes, whacking his arm with the flat of her blade.  _ Needle. _ It hurt, but he had found himself grinning like an idiot.  _ Stick them with the pointy end… I want my bride back… I want my bride back… I want my bride back… _

“I think we had best change the plan,” he said. When Jon and Tormund emerged from that room two hours later, they made straight for the Sheildhall, Horse and Rory at their side. Ghost tried to follow, but Jon wouldn’t allow it. He was in a dark mood, and Ghost always felt his moods. It would not do for him to savage Borroq’s boar this night.

After a riotous meeting, that took too long to control, he had but a few swords willing to join him, though it mattered not to him.  _ I have my swords, and we are coming for you, bastard. _

He had not expected them to turn on him so, his own brothers. They were trying to keep him from his sister, and it seemed as though they might succeed. In the tower, as Wun Wun tore a man to pieces, Wick scratched his neck with a dagger, and Bowen Marsh punched him in the stomach. The knife stayed there though. He felt the light leaving him, and could only think of her.

Pain washed over him.  _ Stick them with the pointy end.  _ When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold...


	2. The Wedding

“How did they let you keep that?”

Theon gestured to the skinny blade in the corner, for tonight he went by Theon. It would not do for the Northern Lords to see Reek; Greyjoy was needed to convince them the girl was the Daughter of the North. She followed his gaze and fixed him with a frown, but answered him, nonetheless.

“When they caught me at White Harbour, on my way to the Wall --"

“To your half-brother, Jon Snow?” Theon interrupted her, and for that, she glared at him. For a moment, he was more scared of her than he was of Ramsay.

“My brother,” she retorted. “Bolton and his men tried to take me. They were bigger and stronger, and I knew they’d get me eventually, no matter what.” She got a glint in her eye then, and the hint of a smile. Theon realised she was pretty; some might even say beautiful, but he could not. Dressed in white lambswool trimmed with lace, pearls and doeskin slippers, she looked almost a woman grown. And a Stark through and through. There could be no doubt that the blood of the First Men ran through her veins and made her strong. Strong, and foolish. All Starks were fools.

“But I’m fast,” she continued. “I got out of their way and held it to my throat. Promised I’d slit it if they tried to take Needle from me.” Theon might’ve laughed at the name, but Reek remained placid. “I’ll use it on him if I have to. I won’t let that bastard take me.”

At that, Theon took over and grabbed the girl’s arms, imploring her with everything he had. “Don’t do that, please!” It was still just above a whisper. “It’ll only be worse for you. He will hurt you, my lady. Do not give him cause.” Arya tore away from him, tears pricking at her eyes. 

“I’ll give him all the cause I please,” she spat at him, venom in her voice. “If it please him to harm my home and my pack, it will please me to hurt him in kind.” Theon regarded her sad, grey eyes with sad, green eyes of his own. In that moment, he remembered she was still just a girl, a wounded, scared little girl, who needed a better man than him to comfort her.

“Come, my lady. It’s time you were married.” Theon extended his hand to her, a scarred, useless little hand. She stared at it, a blankness behind her eyes. She looked to be considering something, evaluating the risk involved. Her survival instinct seemed to take over, and she grabbed Theon’s wrist, her nails digging into the skin beneath the boiled leather. There was a wildness behind her eyes; she looked just like that direwolf of hers.

“Theon, help me,” she implored, searching his eyes for any trace of the person she knew. It was better there be none – that man had caused all this pain, all this death. “We can both be free. We can escape and go to my brother at the Wall.

Tears welled in Theon’s eyes, but he could not tear them away from her. He extracted his arm from her grip and held it out for her. “I will take you to the Godswood now, if it please my lady.”

Arya’s grimace set fear into Reek’s stomach. “No. We are to be…” she swallowed her disgust before continuing, “married in the Sept.” Reek’s gaze was curious and questioning; it was the closest he had come to questioning anything since she arrived. “I keep the Old Gods, and I will not dishonour them with this farce.”

Theon bowed his head, and she finally rested her arm atop his. He led them from the solar, down stone steps and out through the courtyard, until they arrived at the Sept of the Seven. The small, wooden shack built for her mother by Ned Stark so many years ago.

* * *

Arya and Ramsay entered her dark rooms, Reek trailing behind them. She regarded the cloak around her shoulders and thought it a stupid thing. A stupid faith, a stupid colour, pale pink like skin. The Northerners did not put their trust in cloth and silk for protection, but in stone and steel. It was correct that the Boltons were no true Northern family.

She had hidden Needle beneath the bed, ready in case Ramsay tried to harm her. She wondered if it would be wise to use it, however, if perhaps Theon was right. She was quick, and could poke Ramsay Snow full of holes, but could she do that to all of them? Was she better off biding her time? Should she let him… touch her?

On the other hand, the Boltons needed her. She was The Key to the North they said, but only if she was married to Ramsay. She prayed  _ The North Remembers  _ was not a lie. But these were like the men who talked well, but let her friend Mycah be killed all the same. She was the  _ lone wolf _ , surrounded by sheep.

On their way up the stairs, Skinner had boasted that Lord Ramsay had promised him a piece of the bloody sheet as a mark of special favour. She supposed it would not matter whose blood stained that sheet.

Theon turned to leave, but Ramsay called out, “Not you, Reek. You stay.” Theon looked up, meeting Arya’s anxious gaze. Ramsay’s ugly lips curled into a cruel smile as he watched the fear creep across their faces. Arya looked down, but she did not see the Braavosi blade she had hidden there. Her eyes darted around in fear, and she was confronted by Ramsay’s snarling grin. “Looking for something, dear wife? I’m afraid I found a blade here, and had it removed. We wouldn’t want me cutting myself on my wedding night, would we?” Arya was defiant, but silent. She knew how and when to hold her tongue.

He stalked towards her, forcing Arya onto the bed so he towered over her. Without Needle, she felt like she had lost her arm.  _ How could I kill him without an arm? _ She looked to Theon, but the cowering servant offered her no hope. As Ramsay’s cold hand pushed up her skirts, Arya closed her eyes, clenched her fists, and prepared for the worst.


	3. The Black Bastard

Arya Stark was weak and pale from blood loss, but still she glared at Reek with silvery eyes as fierce as that direwolf she used to have. Sometimes, he heard howling at night, and wondered if the beast was returning to save her master. But those were just childish fancies, borne from a lack of sleep. Still, she scared him.

Every night, Ramsay visited her chamber, and locked her within the dark walls each day. Arya Stark had always been strong, but now her weeping tore through the night and kept every lord there awake and angry. Reek saw their mutinous glances, their whisperings and the whiteness of their knuckles as they gripped their sword hilts, and he knew it would not be long now.

Lord Bolton, as he now styled himself, enjoyed torture. Reek knew that better than anyone. To be especially cruel, he would use that blade Arya had with her to do it, hitting her and slashing at her, making her hate this sword she so clearly loved. He made her bleed with it too, and a maester was a constant presence in her rooms by day. He was always silent as he patched her wounds. Arya was not the only wounded animal in Winterfell, Reek knew all too well.

Eventually, Ramsay had given her Needle as a cruel jape, to defend herself. But now she was too weak to use it.

When Reek unlocked the heavy oak door of Arya’s tower chambers to break her fast, he found her in the window seat, staring sullenly at the white sky and falling snow beyond. The fight had left her, he presumed, and she was weary. She had been since she left Winterfell the first time, she told him. He bowed as he set the tray down, but she took no notice.

When he turned to leave, he felt a tug on his arm; Arya had moved across the room quick as a cat, and silently too, to grip his wrist between her small hands. She looked up at him, imploring him to save her. “Help me, Theon! Please!” Reek stared back at her, and wanted nothing more than to agree, but his head shook against his will. “I’ve tried to be strong, but I can’t. I need your help.”

He tore away from her. “I can’t, m’lady, I can’t.” She reached for him again and again, but he hid his face so he would not be drawn in. “Reek, I am Reek! You must let go, Lord Bolton will be here soon.” Still, she pulled and pulled on his arm, begging and weeping, so loud he thought someone must surely hear.

“You betrayed my family!” she cried. Reek was weeping then too, and his tears seemed as loud as thunder when they hit the cold stone floor. When he tried to leave again, she slammed the door shut with one, surprisingly strong, arm and held it there, furious.

“You are a coward, Theon Greyjoy,” she stated, in a tone that brokered no response. Reek twitched and cowed before her. “You are afraid.” Her tone was softer, and her hand fell away from the door, though Reek made no attempt to leave. “How can a man be brave if he is afraid?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

Reek knew it too. Cautiously, he raised his ragged head and met her eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, and repeated the words Eddard Stark had taught all his children. “That is the only time a man can be brave.” And with that, he left.

For months now Reek had waited for the horns to sound, to hear the approaching hooves and clash of swords, to hear the slice as Ramsay’s head is parted from his body. It never came, and Reek cursed himself for hoping. This day, he resolved to help her, the grey girl with sad, wild eyes and the pretty smile, despite all of this. He would be brave, as Ned Stark taught him.

And then it came.

The sound was deafening and wonderful. Whilst men-at-arms scrambled to their posts, swords, bows, axes in hand, Reek lifted his face to the warm sun and thanked the Gods. The Drowned God, the Old Gods, any God that cared to listen. That sound meant an army at the walls. That sound meant they were saved. 

He raced to Arya’s tower as fast as his weak legs would carry him. In his head, he named it Night’s Tower, when he heard her muttering something about a night wolf, but only when she dreamed. He was ready to watch the fight from the window, and pray to her gods and his that the invaders would win. It didn’t matter who was marching on them now, just that they were.

When Reek entered, however, Ramsay was there, desperately trying to drag Arya from the stone seat. The window was open, and that cold wind hit Reek like a fist. Eventually, Ramsay pried Arya’s fingers from the ledge and held a knife to her throat, whispering cruel promises and threats. Just as he thought he was becoming himself again, when Ramsay expected him to move but Arya’s eyes begged him not to, Reek stepped aside to let them pass without protest, and followed at his master’s heels as he had been taught.

* * *

Jon sat atop his horse, at the head of a great army consisting of wildlings and northmen alike. Tormund was at his side, an axe in his hand, and Ghost stood by him, almost if a height with his horse, snarling and snapping at all the unfamiliar scents; it made Jon smile to see man and horse alike get spooked by his wolf. 

Jon hadn’t enjoyed dying much, but once the Red Priestess brought him back, he found these men followed him even more loyally than before, so he had to be grateful. That, and for the chance to rescue his sister.

As the horns blew out across the misty field, Jon’s wounds still pained him, but he did not show it to the band of Boltons, Karstarks and sellswords that stood between him and Winterfell. Stannis Baratheon, Ser Davos Seaworth, even Melisandre of Asshai rode beside him, but all those men were following  _ him _ ; Jon could not see his enemy amongst his forces, and more than once Stannis had commented on the boy’s cowardice and gall to keep a king waiting. The northmen might have said he was keeping two kings waiting, but not to his face.

The horns finally stopped, and Stannis called out from atop his dappled garron, “Ramsay Snow, usurper!” The troops met his cry with a wall of silence, but Jon could see the horses shift, and he guessed the bastard was hiding behind their dented shields.

“Bastard of Bolton!” Jon yelled, fury coursing through every part of him. “Come out here! Face me, you craven! Come out, and die!” His dark eyes were alight as he watched a black courser pass through the wall of soldiers, bearing a large, ugly young man with long, dark hair and an evil glare. His nose was broad, his sloped shoulders even broader,  with a wormy, wet-lipped smile. Just the sight of him filled Jon with an unquenchable rage.

“Lord Commander,” Ramsay responded, mirth in his sickening voice. Even though King Stannis was at his side, all were aware this was a fight between Snow and Snow. “What brings you to Winterfell? This is my home now, after all. I thought you’d be watching your wall, protecting us all from grumpkins and snarks.” A light chuckle rippled through Ramsay’s forces. From the look of him, Stannis had no patience for his games, nor did any of his men. "They call you the Black Bastard, do they not? It seems the name is apt."

“Where is my sister?” Jon refused to engage with his japes.

“Lady Bolton, you mean?” Ramsay was mocking him, but Jon was not fool enough to rise to it. “She is well-fed, well-rested… well-ridden.” The Bolton’s chuckled, as Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. “Would you like to see her?” Bolton asked, and the thought filled Jon with hope and dread in equal measure. “Reek!” he called behind him.

Jon waited anxiously as the horses and footsoldiers parted for them. Stannis had his hand grasped the hilt of his longsword, and little Lyanna Mormont’s glare could have curdled milk, but Jon could only focus on one thing as she came into view.  _ Arya _ . She was taller than he remembered, paler, her hair longer, and more tangled. She looked tired, almost haggard, and bruises, dark purple and yellow, peeked out beneath her heavy woolen dress. Her head was bowed, but when the ragged servant at her side stopped beside Ramsay’s horse, she chanced a look up.

Jon Snow could not tell if relief lit up his sister’s face, or sadness; all he saw were her eyes, sad and grey. Stark eyes. His eyes. It pained him more than anything to be this close to her, but still have blood to spill before she could be in his arms.

“That’s enough,” Ramsay said, snarling. “Reek, take her back. We don’t want my lady near when I remove her brother’s head.” Reek placed a gnarled hand on her back and started to lead Arya back behind the walls of Winterfell, but Jon had to say something.

“Arya!” She turned, and in that moment all words fled him. All he could remember was the lesson he had taught her, the very first. “Stick ‘em with the pointy end,” he said, and the wall of soldiers closed up between them.

“Ramsay Snow,” Stannis said when she was gone, “bow and swear allegiance to me as your rightful king, and you and all your men will be spared. Once I have dealt with the traitor, Roose Bolton, you shall be granted the Dreadfort as is your right as his only heir.” Jon tightened his fist, but said nothing.

Ramsay burst out laughing. “And why would I do that? I have Winterfell, and a larger army. Maybe your red god didn’t teach you how to conquer, but you’ll need more than faith to take Winterfell from me.”

“We have more,” Stannis shot back. “Much more.” Stannis wheeled his horse around and trotted away, to join the rest of their forces hidden amongst the trees. Stannis thought Ramsay too obtuse to see through the ruse, and he was right. If Roose Bolton had been here, they would have had a harder time of it; thousands of Northmen might have been wasted against the grey walls. The Leech Lord cared more to win than to win famously.

Jon and Lyanna paused a moment to regard Ramsay further. “You’re going to die today,  _ Lord  _ Bolton,” Lyanna said as she wheeled her own garron with ease. Flashing him a courteous smile, she put the spurs into her beast and raced to join their men. Jon followed a moment later.

He flexed the fingers of his swordhand. Only one thought filled his head, until it consumed him, and he heard none of Stannis’ commands. He obeyed, but all the while, it pounded against his temples.  _ I want my bride back… I want my bride back… I want my bride back. _


	4. The Wolves Come Again

Theon watched the battle from the ramparts, and found himself rejoicing when it turned in Stannis’ favour. He wanted freedom, and whether that came the traditional way, or through death, Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow would willingly grant it. _And Arya would be safe._ That thought comforted him too.

The battle was quickly becoming a brutal maul; horses screeched and whinied as they died, brought down by arrows from both sides of the field. Ramsay was overpowering them, even with the extra forces that had emerged from the forest, racing and roaring with a fury only the Northmen possessed. More men would be drowned in mud than killed by the sword, Theon was certain, but a small part of him envied them. They were not craven, or traitors, and they would die as heroes. Ramsay sat on his courser, behind a wall of archers, watching his men do battle.

Stannis did not hide, but still he sat upon his garron, watching the men fight, the Red Woman at his side. Jon was amongst the men, battered and bloodied, Ghost at his side ripping out throats. _It’s like the Whispering Wood all over again_ , Theon remembered fondly. But Ghost was silent, unlike Grey Wind, who had snapped and growled and howled at the sky. But his fur was just as red.

Theon had gotten caught up in the excitement, feeling like the man he once was for the first time. But, he had something else to do. This was his chance, and he had learned not to waste it.

As his back turned, so did the battle.

When Ghost raised his head to howl, no sound escaped him, but Jon stopped and stared at him all the same, curious as to what he had sensed. Theon found himself drawn back to watching the action, as if by some mystical presence, and soon half the men there were breathlessly watching the white wolf, now so muddied he resembled his dead brother.

It seemed a lifetime. Ramsay was furiously shouting commands, but no-one listened. The Northmen, battered and bruised, seemed glad of the reprieve.

And then they came.

Like a wave, emerging from the trees to the south, a great pack of man-killers, wolves with fire in their eyes. They tore through the battle, trampling the dead and tearing out Arnolf Karstark’s throat first. The battle resumed in force, but Theon knew how the fight would go. For at the head of them all was a great she-wolf, bigger than all except Ghost. At first sight, they ran to each other, and soon both their snouts were red with traitors’ blood. One of them was always at Jon’s side as his sword slashed and cut through flesh and bone.

Soon, Ramsay’s men were raising their hands in submission, and the pack’s taste for blood was satisfied. Ramsay and the men left to him rode back to Winterfell. Jon and his wolves followed, and Theon ran to the tower.

He did not knock, his excitement was too great. He swung the oaken door open and found Arya staring out the open window, arms wrapped around her chest. He wanted to scream and shout and dance with her, rejoice in the certain victory. The words died in his throat when he saw how still she was. 

“My lady?” he probed, but she seemed not to hear. “My lady, have you seen? The battle is won, your brother has won!” Still, she made not a sound, nor did she move. That she was standing, and a slight twitch of her fingers, was the only thing indicating she was awake. _Or alive_ , he thought darkly.

He crossed the room and placed a scarred hand on her arm, and what he saw when she turned made Theon Greyjoy take a few steps back and suck in his breath.

 _She has no eyes_ , was his first notion, but that wasn’t true. But they were white and hollow, and as she looked at him he knew she couldn’t see him. Her mind was somewhere else. He had always heard tales of the Northmen and their ancient magics, tied to the Children of the Forest and the First Men, and those bloody heart trees. He never believed it, until now.

She blinked a few times, and the greyness returned. “Theon?” He smiled, and so did she. “Were we victorious?” she asked, and he did not need to ask who she meant. “Nymeria killed a lot of men, I think they were all enemies.” That made Theon chuckle a little.

“Yes, my lady,” he answered. “I am certain of it.” As the words left his mouth, they heard a booming sound coming from the yard. Arya sprang to attention, snatching Needle from beside her bed, as Theon retrieved a cloak lined with fur and draped it over her shoulders.

They descended the steps of that tower, he prayed for the last time.

* * *

From the battlements atop the walls, Arya Stark and Theon Greyjoy watched Winterfell's main gate reverberate from the battering ram being pounded against it. The deafening, booming noise was sweet music to Arya's ears. Ramsay was down in the yard, armed with a bow, protected by a dozen soldiers. 

For a moment, doubt seized her, and she grabbed Theon's arm, nails digging into his rags. _What if Jon doesn't come through those gates? What if it's just Stannis Baratheon, and my brother fell in the battle?_ That might break her. She bit her lip, and tried to shut her eyes to it all. 

The wood started to splinter and buckle, and finally it broke, and like the waters of the Trident, Northmen and Kingsmen came pouring forth into the yard, doing battle with the last dregs of Bolton men. Stannis came with them, so she assumed by the crown on his brow, wrought in gold to look like his brow was aflame. _And Jon_. 

He was there, without a sword, his brown hair matted with mud and with blood. His breastplate had been embossed with the running direwolf of House Stark, and the sight almost made Arya cry. She wanted to call out his name, but this was a battle, and any distraction could mean his life. 

Jon had eyes only for Ramsay, and she saw the anger there. He picked up a discarded shield just as Ramsay loosed a quarrel. She let out a stifled cry and covered her mouth, but it caught the battered wooden sun Jon protected himself with, white on black. Theon stood tall behind her, rubbing her arms and shoulders to soothe her a little. It didn't help, but for once, Arya was glad he was here.

Ramsay loosed another quarrel, and then a third, but Jon blocked them all and kept course, stalking towards Ramsay like a direwolf with its prey. Ghost and Nymeria padded into the courtyard behind him, and the she-wolf raced up the steps to embrace her. Even so, they watched silently as Jon used his splintered shield to knock the bow from his hands and push him into the dirt. 

Jon threw the shield aside and suddenly he was on him, beating his slimy face to a bloody pulp. Arya, Nymeria and Theon Greyjoy descended to join Stannis and the rest of the soldiers, who stood watching this gruesome spectacle. No one cared to intervene. 

Jon looked up and saw Arya, and his fist grew limp. Neither seemed able to move, as if their matching eyes cast a spell on one another. Slowly, Jon rose to his feet, unsteady and weak in the knees. There were no words passed between them; they all seemed insignificant somehow.

Stannis stepped up beside Jon, looking like a common soldier in his plate, mail and boiled leather, if not for the gold crown on his bald head. “Lady Stark,” he said, though Arya did not look like she was listening, “I am glad to return Winterfell to you. The traitors in the North will all soon be rooted out, and I would be pleased name you the Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North, as you have no family left to you.” He paused. “If you bend the knee.” Arya still did not look at him.

“You are my family,” was all she said, and Jon smiled and let out a breath he was holding. In a few, hurried steps, they were in each other’s arms, and Arya was being lifted off the cold, hard ground. The tears flowed freely from both of them, and even Stannis felt his heart warm at the sight. Ghost and Nymeria yapped at their heels, as if they were still the pups Robb pulled from the snow.

When at last Jon released his sister, their armies had arrived at the gate, and each man knelt. Whether to Stannis or Jon, or even Arya, she could not say. Jon kissed her hand, then her cheek, then her forehead, and whispered in her ear, “Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Didn’t I say we’d end up here again?” That made Arya laugh, but the next thing he whispered made her adopt a more sombre expression. They faced him together.

“Your Grace,” she began, with a shaky voice, still hoarse from crying, “I thank your for liberating me and my home. Winterfell is yours.” Stannis inclined his head in respect. “Once the castle is put to rights, we will find rooms for you.”

“You are most kind, my lady. I promise you the extent of this treachery will be found out, and the traitors will be eliminated, root and stem. The ones we have here will be executed on the morn.” He spat at Ramsay’s feet, though he was not awake to take offence.

“No.” That one word gave Stannis pause, and Jon looked like a nervous boy once he said it. “If it please Your Grace, the Boltons have hurt my family and the entire North. But this one,” he said, gesturing to the bloody husk of Ramsay Bolton, “he hurt my sister the most. She should decide what’s to be done with him.” Stannis inclined his head and allowed it.

Jon turned to Arya, his eyes asking the question his mouth would not. Arya looked at Ramsay once more, the traitor, the tormentor, the torturer, the Bastard of the Dreadfort. She thought of her wedding, and all the nights since. Her grey eyes were like steel as she said, “The man must die.”

“Very well,” Stannis said. “One of my knights will kindly hang them soon enough.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Arya interjected, less frightened than she was a moment ago, “but my father was fond of saying, ‘ _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.’_ He said, ‘ _If_ _you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.’”_ Jon stared at her as she spoke, and couldn’t fight the smile. “ _I_ will execute him, on the morrow.”

Stannis nodded, and at last noticed the ragged man standing silent behind her. “Who are you?” he asked, rather brusquely. With all eyes on him, Theon’s voice caught in his throat. He could not bare to look Jon in the eye, but Arya’s gaze made him stand upright and speak, like the lord he was. _Like the lord he used to be_.

“Theon Greyjoy, Your Grace. Last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands --”

“Yes, yes, I know who your bloody father is,” Stannis interrupted. “And tell me, Theon Greyjoy, why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.”

Theon said nothing, for he could think of no reason. He was prepared for death. But, to everyone’s surprise, Jon spoke for him. “He protected my sister. That should grant him his head, at least.”


	5. Scars

In the confines of the Lord’s Chamber, her father’s chamber, Arya finally felt safe again. Stannis had graciously accepted another room, as the Lady of Winterfell had this room by rights. She ran her hands over the soft furs that still smelled of home, and let herself imagine she lived in a better world. A pure world. A world where she didn’t belong.

Her wounds still pained her, but they had been washed and dressed and bound by the maester, and she paid them no mind for they would be gone soon, and would never be replaced by new ones. She thanked the Old Gods for that.

Nymeria never left her side, as Ghost never left Jon’s. Just now, she was resting by the hearth, and Arya decided she must change. She wanted to look well before those lords as she removed Bolton’s worthless head. She selected a dark grey dress embroidered with the direwolf of House Stark in shimmering silver thread, and the fur-trimmed cloak Jon had worn before the battle. He gave it to her the night before when she same to him, shivering, before he returned with her to the Lord’s Chamber and slept soundly side-by-side.

As she was removing her shift, the door edged open, and Jon paused at what he saw. He never used to knock when coming to see her, and it didn’t occur to him to change the practice now. Only when he saw her scars did he stop, unsure of how to broach such a subject. They drew thin, pale pink lines across her torso, and Jon flexed the fingers of his swordhand, no less relaxed now that the bastard was facing justice.

When at last Arya noticed him, she turned away to continue dressing, and Jon did the same. He felt the blush rising in his cheeks, which was ridiculous given everything he had done. At last she was covered, but called out to him, “Could you help with my laces, Jon? I was never very good at them.”

Jon obliged and crossed the room, and began lacing her into her dress. “You look beautiful, sis.” He watched her cheeks and neck turn red. “Did he do that to you?”

As he tied off the last, she turned to face him and cupped his face in her hands. “ _He_ is headed for the block, and it will never happen again. Leave the past where it is.” He nodded meekly, but she kissed his cheek and soon they were grinning at each other again. “What happened to you?”

Jon sighed. “Many things, that I would not care to repeat.” Arya nodded, her eyes downcast. “Hey, remember Arya. Scars are just proof that you were stronger than whatever tried to hurt you.” That made her smile, and once he swept the cloak across her shoulders, they left the chamber together.

The yard was dusted with snow, and crowded for the first time in years. The Lords Manderly, Glover, Umber, as well as Lady Mormont had gathered with their men to watch Bolton die. All claimed they admired Arya greatly for doing the deed herself.

A block had been found somewhere within the keep. Ramsay had more… _interesting_ methods of execution, so it had taken a while to locate one. But now, he knelt behind it, hands bound, his face battered and bruised, and the sight made Arya smile. She stood tall before the proud Northmen, and glared at Ramsay when he dared to flash her cruel smile of broken teeth. She saw Stannis, his Onion Knight, and the Red Woman at the fore of the crowd. The Red Woman wore that sly smile she always did, as if she shared a joke with some spirit, and no-one living would ever hear it.

Without a word, Jon unsheathed his Valyrian steel sword and handed it to her. _Longclaw_ it was called, and pommel looked just like Ghost. The direwolves were with them, as always. It was too heavy for her, but two hands made it bearable, and she didn’t embarrass herself too much. The metal was dark as smoke, and had an edge like nothing else.

She would not allow Ramsay the dignity of last words. Instead, she whispered to the steel, as she had seen her father do once, though she hadn’t been allowed. “By the word of Arya of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North, I do sentence you to die.” She lifted the bastard sword above her head.

In that moment, she panicked. She wasn’t sure she could take a man’s head. It wasn’t the same as poking him full of holes, and with all these people watching, she wondered what it would look like. She hoped she would not retch afterwards.

Longclaw descended, and Ramsay Bolton’s head went rolling across the muddy, snow-covered yard.

* * *

In Winterfell’s great hall, the Northern Lords raised their swords and asked to name Jon King in the North. Arya felt her heart swell with pride, and when she looked over, Theon was grinning along with the rest. Stannis’ face was fixed in a grim line.

Then Jon grabbed her hand and made her stand beside him. “You have your Queen, my lords. As do I.” That made her scared again, but this time, she knew just what to say. As Umber, Mormont, Glover, Manderly, and the rest laid swords at her feet, she named Jon King as they demanded. A regent for her, if they needed a reason.

All the titles mattered not. As they shouted their names and called them King and Queen, Arya and Jon looked to one another, and knew they would never be apart again.


End file.
